


Fate Is A Miserable Bitch

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [329]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Geralt to the rescue, Jaskier's A Disaster, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:00:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24048595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: Jaskier's car breaks down on the way to a gig. Some guy on a horse offers to help.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Mental Mimosa [329]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1012767
Comments: 5
Kudos: 244





	Fate Is A Miserable Bitch

Fate is a miserable bitch. That’s what it felt like of a Sunday afternoon in spring when Jaskier found himself on the side of the road, stranded, his ancient Peugeot at a standstill in the still, afternoon heat.

He was supposed to be in Cornwall in two hours for a gig, a _good_ gig, goddamnit, and after spending twenty minutes waiting in vain for a passerby, it’s clear that he wouldn’t be.

“Shortcut my ass,” he muttered to no one in particular. “That’s the last time I ask a human for directions. This is why God made Google Maps.”

In all fairness, the sensible part of his brain deigns to remind him, he was the one who’d left London without his phone fully charged. It wasn’t the universe’s fault that he was an idiot when it came to electronic devices and had a bad habit of losing power cords. He only ever used his phone to listen to music, really, and the thing had begun to get cranky about that, lately--which was what one got, his last steady shag had told him, for rocking an iPhone 4 when they were up to what, now, version 10?

 _It works perfectly well_ , he’d told her, leaning over to kiss her bare shoulder. _Except when it doesn’t. Like most of us, huh?_

She’d watched him with sleepy tiger eyes, her hand brushing soft at his hair. _It’s a convenient way for you to be inconvenient, that’s what it is. Sometimes I think you like being unreachable, Jas. You like living behind the times._

His mouth had been too busy with her glorious breasts then to agree or disagree.

Still, when she’d sent him a factory-fresh iPhone a week or so later, he hadn’t so much as taken it out of the box. Because hiccups and all his phone was fine; wholly serviceable, and all that. What he had, he told himself, worked just fine.

Except now he was standing on a local road in the middle of nowhere, about to miss a paid show and the chance to fall in love for the night with a stranger and have an excellent and sweaty one night stand all because he couldn’t be buggered to fully sign on with the twenty-first century and fuck that shit, damn and _fuck_!

Wait.

“Ah hell,” he said. More of a whisper, really, so he could hear. “Was that thunder?”

It took a minute, but indeed, the sound came again: a low rumble made all the more ominous by the persistence of cheerful sunshine. The breeze had turned, too, he realized; there was a chill in it now, the curl of coming rain. A downpour, no doubt, the kind that turned roads like these into lakes.

“Of course,” he said to himself. He stared up at the sky, baleful. “Why not? How about a plague of locusts, too, just for kicks?”

The frustration that had been chasing him all afternoon caught him in its teeth and shook him by the shoulders and he turned, fists balled, and took it out on the hood of his car. 

The metal was hot under his hands and it hurt after the first blow but it felt good to do _something_ , anything instead of just stand there and wait to be soaked or swept away, or both. It felt good to fucking scream at the injustice of the universe for chewing him up and spitting him out today of all days, one that seemed to hold such promise. Was it really too much to ask for the gods to grant him the fleeing pleasures of a full purse and a good fuck?

“I didn’t even expect an adoring audience!” he shouted, turning now in a little circle beside the dead care. “I would’ve settled for a mostly sober one! That’s all! A handful of people who weren’t too drunk to appreciate my wordplay and maybe even sing along!”

Another shot of thunder, much louder now, and when he looked up, clouds had over taken the sun.

He gave an ugly, angry snort and kicked the nearest tire, the burn in his throat starting to pitch over towards tears. “Well that’s just great! That is just fucking great, universe! Thank you so much for screwing me over!”

“Who the fuck,” said a voice behind him, above him, “are you talking to?”

Jaskier jumped straight up and yelped and when he spun around, it was to stare into the face of a nonplussed-looking horse with a giant perched on its back.  
  
“Excuse me!” Jaskier said, only a full octave above usual. “I’m yelling at my car. Obviously. It’s a private conversation.”

The man snorted. “Not at that volume, it’s not.”

“No one was asking you to eavesdrop.”

“No one was asking you to scare off every bird in the county. Car not working?”

Jaskier crossed his arms. All right, upon further examination, maybe the guy sassing him wasn’t exactly a giant, but for all his asshattery, the man did have killer shoulders and long, wind-whipped white hair and (Jaskier couldn’t help but noticing, despite his best intentions), the seriously annoyed expression the guy was wearing couldn’t quite hide his, er, handsomeness.

“No, it’s fucking not,” he spat, ignoring the handsome, damn it, and focusing on the fact that the man was acting like an absolute prat. “You’re a master of observation.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong with it?”

“I don’t know! It just kind of--stopped.”

“Hmm. Out of petrol, maybe.”

“No,” Jaskier said stubbornly. It seemed important to help this man understand that he wasn’t a total idiot, for some reason. “I filled up in the village a few miles back.”

A snort. “Maybe you weren’t paying attention and pumped diesel instead of petrol.”

“Bullshit. I haven’t done that in _years_.”

His brain didn’t register what he’d said until the granite face above him cracked. The man broke out into a creaky (but undeniable charming, fuck him) grin. 

“Regardless,” the guy said, “you’ll have to get someone up the village to tow it. And there’s no way they’ll come out in this rain.”

“It’s not raining yet.”

The horse tossed its head and a moment later, thunder again: this time in a bone-jarring crash.

“Give it a minute or two; it will be. And it won’t stop until morning.”

“Until _morning_?” Jaskier repeated. His frustration bubbled again and he could feel the boil rising in his face, the stupid tears jabbing at his eyes. “Until morning?!”

“Yes,” the man said shortly. “Grab your gear. We’re going.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you! I don’t _know_ you. I don’t--!”

“My house is half a mile away. The next nearest is five or so miles. The village, more like ten. You leave now, you might swim there by midnight. Your choice.”

If only he’d hadn’t left London first thing as he’d meant to instead of lollygagging about until lunch. If only his phone wasn’t a hundred years old. If only he’d stuck to the motorway instead of following that stranger’s advice in the village--oh, a shortcut? Knocks an hour off the drive? Lovely!--and taking to the back fucking roads. Ah, no, but the errors of his ways went back even farther than that, didn’t they? If only he hadn’t hated school so much. If only he hadn’t chucked his surprising-to-everyone-but-him A levels just to watch his father blow his stack. If only he’d ever valued practicality over the romantic ideal; if only he hadn’t been quite so fond of drinking wine and fucking the willing and opening himself up to what came after: the song. If only he had a practical bone anywhere in his body, he realized, standing on the side of the bloody road, he might have avoided this moment, this bizarre choice between drowning, apparently, and taking the hand of a man who looked wholly capable of snapping Jaskier in half and he was grateful the rain started when it did, right then, because it meant the guy didn’t get the privilege of knowing that he’d actually started to cry.

“Grab your gear,” the man said again, “or else I’m leaving you here.”

Jaskier looked up at him; he knew the misery of the day was plain on his face. “There’s just my guitar.”

“All right, go on then.” It wasn’t said unkindly. “Get that.”


End file.
